


Somebody To Love

by nidavellir



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, And Crowley is an insecure little idiot, Banter, Books, Crowley loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, They drink and talk, They have a roadtrip, for sure, they're in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nidavellir/pseuds/nidavellir
Summary: “If you drive, I get to pick the music.”“Absolutely not, your taste in music is appalling,“ Crowley said decidedly. Aziraphale pulled a face, but Crowley was adamant. He was not driving seven hours from London to Edinburgh if all he had to listen to was Bach or, someone forbid, bloody ABBA. The demon briefly wondered how he'd been convinced by an angel to participate in a roadtrip.Because that's what they were doing.-Aziraphale has convinced Crowley to have a roadtrip for his quote unquote birthday, and now they're left to argue over the details.





	1. The Night Before

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fanfiction! I adore Terry and Neil and I love Good Omens, and Aziraphale and Crowley are kind of my gay icons. So I wrote this little thing for myself, but figured I might as well upload it and see what happens.   
> The answer is, anxiety will happen, because other people's opinions are scary :')  
> But yeah, enjoy, leave a comment or something if you like. I'm not sure yet if I'm adding anything or if it just stays this contained smol story of banter, we'll see.

“If you drive, I get to pick the music.” 

“Absolutely not, your taste in music is appalling,“ Crowley said decidedly. Aziraphale pulled a face, but Crowley was adamant. He was not driving seven hours from London to Edinburgh if all he had to listen to was Bach or, someone forbid, bloody ABBA. The demon briefly wondered how he'd been convinced by an angel to participate in a roadtrip.

Because that’s what they were doing. Crowley had wanted to go to Edinburgh for years now (there had been some highly interesting murders there that he couldn't wait to hear about, not to mention some great restaurants), but he’d never really got round to it. Recently Aziraphale had insisted they go there for his ‘birthday’. Even though Anthony Crowley’s birthday was just a random date that he’d needed for annoying things like his fake passport, birth certificate and such nonsense. Crowley’s real birthday was… well… the beginning of time, he supposed. Same as Aziraphale. Hardly a specific date to celebrate, as those were the good old days before the invention of awful things like calendars and Mondays. A better time, really. Mondays should be scrapped. Banned. Suspended until further notice. Crowley hated Mondays.

Anyway, the point was, it wasn’t his real birthday, the date meant nothing to him, and the whole idea was nonsense. But Aziraphale had been so excited. He’d beamed and flailed his arms around and shouted excitedly in his typical overly expressive way. Plus, Crowley really did want to go to Edinburgh, and he’d been stuck in London for far too long- he needed a getaway trip. Why not? It wasn’t that he found it impossible to refuse the angel anything. No. That wasn’t it. It just seemed silly to turn down his offer, the demon thought as he absentmindedly examined his bruised knuckles.

Except then they’d come to the matter of transport. Crowley had suggested they simply fly there, but Aziraphale, absurdly, did not like to fly, and had in turn suggested they take the subway. Crowley felt positively offended at the very idea. Public transport in England seemed to be designed to make your trip a living hell. In fact, Crowley had been taking notes- he felt that actual hell could learn a thing or two from the subway system. Being stuck in a tiny compartment filled with sweaty teenagers, exasperated mothers dragging around crying children, and unattractive businessmen on the brink of a burnout hardly seemed worth the overpriced ticket. Not to mention the unwritten law that no matter where you’re going, you always have to get there at least twenty minutes late and with multiple mysterious stains on your shirt. The mere suggestion had shocked Crowley into saying that for Odin’s sake (he’d resorted to mythological figures and fictional characters in order to avoid the G-word), he’d just drive the two of them there and that was the end of that discussion.

Which left the two of them in Aziraphale’s dusty old bookshop to bicker about who got to pick the music, the snacks, the restaurants in Edinburgh and about a million other things that they never got to because they were still stuck on the music. 

“You only ever listen to Queen anyway,” Aziraphale pointed out, pulling out a book that looked as if it was about as old as the angel himself. As he opened it, something fell out that looked suspiciously like a dead spider which had been half compressed to dust. “Not voluntarily, I assure you,” Crowley said a bit haughtily. “I’ve explained to you before-” “Yes, of course, all your CD’s magically transform into Queen’s greatest hits.” When considering the fact that this was an angel speaking, one who had witnessed the dawn of time and got very close to seeing the apocalypse unfold, Crowley thought Aziraphale’s skepticism on this particular front was quite remarkable. “It’s true,” he hissed- and immediately regretted his tone. After all these years, he still couldn’t get rid of the hiss. Maybe he was going soft, but he didn’t particularly like the vicious sound of it. Especially in the angel’s presence. Aziraphale and viciousness went together about as well as England and perfect, warm, sunny days. They didn’t. That’s why Crowley always did his very best to hide his forked tongue when he was with Aziraphale, along with his yellow eyes- the only two things about his appearance that hinted at his true nature. “I’m not listening to ABBA for seven hours,” he quickly added in his normal voice, but Aziraphale didn’t even seem to have noticed the snakelike sound that had escaped him before. “What’s wrong with ABBA?” the angel asked, looking up from his book with a hurt expression on his face. Crowley did not dignify this question with a response, and instead just rolled his eyes. “Alright, no ABBA. I think I have a mixtape lying around. You’ll like it, I promise.” The demon was about to voice his doubt, but Aziraphale’s attention was elsewhere, as he was suspiciously eyeing a man outside who looked as if he was thinking about entering the bookstore. Crowley grinned when the angel’s glare successfully convinced the man to quicken his pace and move on. As soon as the threat was eliminated, Aziraphale focused again on the ancient book he was holding, which was apparently quite fascinating as he’d seemed to forget entirely about the conversation at hand. He had that concentrated look about him, with soft creases between his eyebrows and his blue eyes slightly narrowed as he turned a brittle page with his perfectly manicured fingers. Crowley was fond of that expression and he was fond of those hands, and suddenly found himself staring. Clearing his throat, shaking himself out of his daze as soon as he realized what he was doing, he said, “Fine, bring your mixtape.” Aziraphale looked up in surprise, but immediately after broke out in a radiant smile that left Crowley temporarily unable to form any rational thoughts. He tried to snap out of it, but it was so satisfying to just… look at the angel, to live in comfortable silence in this bookstore that smelled like him, or to bicker with him over absolutely nothing. The demon shook his head. Comfortable silence? Admiring someone’s pretty looks without any lustful or evil intent?

_ What the heaven is wrong with me?  _

_ “ _ Alright, roadtrip tomorrow, then, _ ”  _ said Aziraphale, snapping Crowley out of his thoughts. “As for tonight, how about a little alcohol?” Crowley had to admit that sounded like a pretty solid plan. The angel slumped down on the couch next to him in a jumble of tired limbs, popped open a bottle of wine that seemed to appear out of thin air (because, in fact, it had), and filled up two pretty, crystal glasses with the sparkling alcohol. They were the kind of glasses that looked perfect in his soft, pale fingers, but not so much in Crowley’s bruised and scraped hands. When the angel handed him a glass, he suddenly noticed said bruises and scrapes (which Crowley had collected in his most recent bar fight- someone had implied that Simon and Garfunkel were superior to the Kinks), and with a gasp he took the demon’s free hand in his own, giving him a look that was both worried and scolding. The touch was unexpected and sudden, and Crowley drew in a sharp breath. “What have you been up to?” Aziraphale asked in an accusatory tone. Crowley, temporarily distracted by the soft touch of the angel's fingers grazing over his skin, almost stammered in his reply. “Uh… nothing, you know- tempting some humans to violent actions,” he said, trying for his most devilish grin to hide his uncertainty and confusion. Because he  _ was _ uncertain and confused. He was suddenly very aware of how close the angel was sitting next to him, how their knees touched, the fact that he could see the swirl of grey in Aziraphale's blue eyes, the little cracks in what from a distance appeared to be perfectly soft lips. And the fact that the angel was still… holding his hand, looking at the bruises with great concern, seemingly oblivious to how physically close they both were. Breathing suddenly seemed a little harder.

Crowley damned (blessed, you know, whatever) the angel's good looks for reasons he wasn't quite sure of. Why did his blonde curls have to be so perfectly… curly? 

_ God damn it. I mean, uh- Frey damn it. No, that doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?  _

“I'm fine, angel, no need to fuss over some bruises,” Crowley said, pulling away his hand, and maybe he'd intended his words to be harsh, but they come out in a tone that was almost fond. Aziraphale looked at him in much the same way, shook his head and directed his attention back at the consumption of as much alcohol as possible. A sigh of relief escaped Crowley’s lips at the loss of contact, and he released a bit of the tension he hadn’t noticed before. There was something strange going on that he didn’t want to think about, so he did what any self-respecting demon in denial would do and downed a couple of drinks. Aziraphale was a little surprised at his sudden enthusiasm for quick alcohol consumption, but didn’t complain. After all, drunk Crowley was just so much… fun, the angel thought with a smile that wasn’t as benevolent as it probably should be. Sometimes he made sure he was just a little less drunk than Crowley, just to enjoy his intoxicated banter.

This made for a situation in which Aziraphale was a little drunk, but Crowley was positively hammered. An advantage of this, the demon redlected, was that he had much less problems with physical contact. In fact, he found himself longing for touch in an instinctive, needy sort of way. He tried to think about whether this was a good thing in any way, but his alcohol-muddled brain was slow and dim and didn’t allow for any intelligent conclusions. Plus, Aziraphale was distracting him with some theological debate, and it was very important that Crowley won.

“But, so… Judas, in the end, ‘s only exetu-execu- he was only doin’ what  _ your God, _ ” Crowley pointed accusatory at the angel, wine sloshing over the edge of his glass, “wanted ‘m to do! It was all… part of the... the ineffable,” both friends fell into an impressed silence for a second when this word came out perfectly, “plan!” He finished triumphantly, and noted with some surprise that if you gesture wildly with a glass of liquid in your hand, this might cause the liquid to be redistributed all over your hands, clothes and couch. Aziraphale squinted at him, trying to come up with a good rebuke, but found himself coming up empty. “Maybe he was,” the angel admitted, and Crowley stared at him in shock. In fact, he was so shocked, he didn’t say anything either, and Aziraphale snickered at his uncharacteristic silence. “Good to know I can still surprise you after all this time, old friend,” he said. 

More silence. Before Crowley could decide whether it was a good idea, he said, “Am I?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Y’r friend,” the demon clarified, in a somewhat slurred voice. This time, the angel just blinked in confusion. “Of course,” he said, sensing the inadequacy of his response but not knowing what else to say. Crowley didn’t seem very convinced, and Aziraphale realized he really didn’t know. Almost in shock, he reached out to the demon, placing his hand on his thin (really too thin) leg and scooting closer to him in the process. Closer, come closer, Crowley found himself thinking, but he still had enough wits about him to keep quiet. He wasn’t sure he’d actually be able to say anything, anyway, because he was terribly, deliciously distracted by the angel’s scent. 

Crowley could smell the alcohol on the angel’s breath, but there was also the scent of Aziraphale himself, something fresh and sweet, like peppermint and washed sheets. When he inhaled it deeply, he felt dizzy for a second and wished he could nuzzle up to the angel. “Of course you are my friend, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, very seriously. “You really think, after all this time, I didn’t care about you?” “I s’ppose, I just thought-” Crowley hiccupped, “you din’t… care ‘s much as I do,” he finished rather lamely, his words so slurred that it was obvious he wouldn’t have said this in any state resembling sober. Aziraphale shook his head in disbelief, not knowing what to say, and there was a moment of silence. Before he knew it, Crowley’s hand had inched up and landed on top of Aziraphale’s outstretched hand, fingers intertwining on top of the demon’s knee. When Crowley turned his head, the angel was looking at him, and his lips looked like lips he’d very much like to kiss, but he knew he shouldn’t- bless Aziraphale and his pretty face. He wondered what Aziraphale was thinking, but knew that it couldn’t be anything like the things  _ he _ was thinking. The demon was thinking about kissing his lips and collarbones, and sitting in the angel’s lap, and running his hands through his hair, and doing some other, more explicit things- and then he tried to desperately think about very unattractive things. Because, as drunk as he was, he realized that he shouldn’t be thinking this. He removed his hand from Aziraphale’s, who pulled back as well.

Crowley told himself not to think about it. 

He told himself that Aziraphale would never feel that way about him.

He told himself that he was nowhere near good enough for this beautiful angel. 

He told Aziraphale, in a cheerful if somewhat forced voice, “More wine!” 

The angel obliged, poured them both another glass and quickly gulped it down before slumping back down on the couch and resting his head against Crowley’s shoulder, nestling against him. Crowley was too drunk to notice that Aziraphale wasn’t really that drunk at all. Not drunk enough to be cuddling with a demon, anyway. The truth was, the angel had been feeling a little lonely lately, all alone in his bookshop, and he wanted to be close to Crowley- but he didn’t think the demon would allow it unless he was pissed drunk. The other truth was that Aziraphale hadn’t slept in weeks because he’d been too busy studying his newest books, and could really do with a small nap.

“Roadtrip tomorrow, Crowley?” the angel said, eyes already half-closed.

“Tr-troadrip tomorrow, angel,” Crowley affirmed, dozing off.

Aziraphale smiled a lazy smile before he nuzzled tighter against his friend. 

Before the both of them fell asleep, Crowley could swear he heard the angel mumble something.

“My Crowley.”


	2. Sympathy For The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, no. Had Crowley… last night, had he… had he actually been holding hands with the angel, and telling him he cared?  
> Alright, time to repress that entire experience.  
> Crowley was starting to second-guess this whole roadtrip idea. He was a mess, his feelings for this angel were a mess, and now they were taking vacations together. And drinking together. And sleeping together.  
> Well, not… not sleeping sleeping together, but sleeping, at the same time, in each other’s presence.
> 
> Or: Crowley gets a bit angsty and confused about his and Aziraphale's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I slow? Yes. Do I have any idea what I'm doing? Not at all. Did I finish this chapter when I was supposed to be preparing my presentation for uni? Yes, yes I did. But enjoy either way.

The demon awoke on the couch the next day with a bit of a headache and a dry mouth, and realized he hadn't magicked the alcohol from his system. His eyes still unfocused and half-closed, he wanted to give a magic-y wave with his left hand, but suddenly realized it was occupied.   
In fact, most of his body was.  
Dread slowly filling the demon’s mind, he opened his eyes against his better judgement and glanced over to his left side.  
As he suspected, there was a certain blonde and speckled angel glued to his side in a most ungodly manner. His head was buried in the crook of Crowley's neck, legs curled up on the couch, one of his arms slung around the demon's chest and the other one was obstructing Crowley's left arm from view. He tensed as he realized the angel was holding his hand, then relaxed slightly when he decided that out of all the people in the world, heaven and hell, Aziraphale was probably the least threatening person to have wrapped around your body. If this had been pre-Almost Apocalypse, Crowley would have been terrified- if another demon had found out that he was casually cuddling with an angel, there would be very unpleasant consequences. But it wasn’t pre-Almost Apocalypse.   
At this point, Crowley was fairly sure that the entirety of hell had decided to erase him from their collective memory after the whole preventing-the-end-of-the-world-debacle. Aziraphale had heard nothing from Above either; since they both knew neither heaven nor hell had any scruples about torture and murder, they had been both relieved and tense. They’d been tense for around a decade before they decided that just possibly, their former employers were simply too embarrassed about the whole thing to admit that their plans had been thwarted by two of their own.   
And after that decision, Crowley had realized, their Arrangement was no longer work-related. How could it be? They were both unemployed. This shift made him nervous, scared to hang around the angel too much because he technically had no reason to, and he didn’t want Aziraphale to reach that conclusion first and kick him out of his bookshop and/or life. After all, the angel had been forced by circumstances to be around Crowley; and sure, they’d been having fun sometimes, but Crowley worried that that was more a making-the-best-of-a-bad-situation-thing. He worried about his own feelings towards the angel, which he had refused to define; he worried that whatever he felt, they were feelings that the angel didn’t have for him at all; and most of all, he worried that Aziraphale would reject him first. If someone was going to do the rejecting, it would be Crowley. Even if Aziraphale didn’t care about him.  
Care?  
Oh, no. Had he… last night, had he… had he actually been holding hands with the angel, and telling him he cared?  
Alright, time to repress that entire experience.  
Crowley started to second-guess this whole roadtrip idea. He was a mess, his feelings for this angel were a mess, and now they were taking vacations together. And drinking together. And sleeping together.  
Well, not… not sleeping sleeping together, but sleeping, at the same time, in each other’s presence. Although maybe Crowley wouldn’t mind the other thing. And with Aziraphale here, next to him, his arms around him, it wasn’t hard to imagine...  
Bless it, snap out of this absurd fantasy.  
Aziraphale chose exactly that moment to wake up, Crowley realized when the angel groaned and lifted his head slightly. Opening his eyes, Aziraphale didn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest by their position. Instead, he just mumbled, “Good morning, Crowley,” and the demon stuttered out something that meant about the same. Thank someone, Aziraphale finally peeled himself away from Crowley (who definitely did not regret the loss of the angel's body, no, not at all), and said, “Breakfast?” The demon nodded stupidly, still a bit in a daze. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and before them on the table that was cluttered with old books and half-translated documents, two plates with a complete English breakfast appeared, along with two glasses of water. As Aziraphale started nibbling on his bacon, the demon nodded at the glasses.  
“Any chance you’re turning those into wine?”   
The angel shot Crowley a look. “My dear boy, it’s eight in the morning.”   
“Hair of the dog,” Crowley muttered, but his friend seemed unconvinced.  
“You’re not telling me you’re actually hungover?”  
Now that Crowley again had access to both hands, he gave the magic-y wave he’d intended to perform earlier. “Not anymore,” he said, and yawned. Even if he wasn’t hungover, the demon was not a fan of mornings, and his voice was still rough and tired. He disliked his voice when it was all gruff and gravelly. It was the same as his eyes, and his hiss; painful reminders to Crowley that even though he was hanging out with a pretty angel, he himself was still very much a fallen one. A fallen angel that had prevented Armageddon.  
Crowley sighed. He had been trying not to think about the aftermath anymore and just spend time with the angel, no questions asked, but he was obviously failing spectacularly. Especially this morning. Maybe because this was the first time since the Almost Apocalypse that he was actually going to spend a couple of days together with the angel. Just the two of them, going on a roadtrip to Edinburgh. Why the hell not.   
“Everything alright, dear?“ Aziraphale said, when he saw Crowley pushing his egg around. Despite his appearance, Crowley was always hungry and he never, ever passed up on a good old-fashioned English breakfast. “Yeah,” said the demon, apparently snapping out of a daze. “Just a bit tired still. I'll eat something on the way.” If the angel noticed anything off in his voice, he didn't say.   
They finished their breakfasts (at least, Aziraphale did), Crowley threw on his long black coat, and they made their way to the Bentley with some much needed supplies- which amounted to alcohol, food and a couple of sweaters. After Crowley had driven away (with slightly too much screeching tires for Aziraphale's taste) and they’d both settled, the angel suddenly whipped out a mixtape.   
“Oh no,” said Crowley. Aziraphale looked insulted. “My dear boy, don't judge before you've heard it. I told you I'd made it specifically to your tastes.”  
“I'm not sure I trust your idea of my taste.”   
Aziraphale made no comment, but instead shoved his mixtape into the slightly abused slot of Crowley’s Bentley (he hadn’t been kind when his cd of the Kinks had not been able to resist the Queen transformation) and pressed play.   
Crowley was used to multitasking when he was driving. He’d made an art of steering with his knees, which meant it wasn’t unusual for him to eat while driving, drink while driving, fold origami turtles while driving, et cetera. At the moment, he was slurping some zero Coke from a bottle (he’d been partly responsible for its invention, it was only right he consumed it every now and then) right when Aziraphale hit play; an unfortunate decision, because when Sympathy for the Devil blasted through the speakers, Crowley choked on his soda. As the demon was coughing and spluttering in a not very charming manner, Aziraphale couldn’t stop a rather cocky smirk from creeping up his face. “Do try to keep the car on the road, dear.”  
“Angel,” Crowley gasped, “you’re going to be the death of me.”  
And for a second, he forgot all about his worries.   
Aziraphale had apparently done his very best to make the most blasphemous mixtape of all time. After Highway to Hell, Ain't No Rest for the Wicked, and Being Evil Has a Price, all Crowley could do is shake his head in shock and cast disbelieving glances at his angel. “You're ridiculous,” he finally said. “Do you like it?” Aziraphale asked innocently. “Yes, I bloody like it,” said Crowley, as the Heavy Young Heathens faded out, “I was expecting the Beatles.”   
“Well..”   
She's got the devil in her heart, a certain English rock band started singing, but her eyes they tantalize.  
Crowley snickered. “I knew it.” He half expected the angel to become offended again, but Aziraphale was still wearing his grin. Probably because he'd said he liked it. I'll never hear the end of it, the demon thought, but when he cast a sidelong glance at his beaming angel, he couldn't really bring himself to care. 

After two hours, the glorious mixtape had come to an end, but neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had noticed as they found themselves in a heated debate over which side had contributed most to Harry Potter.  
“It encourages occult practices!” said Crowley. “Really, angel, some things can be questioned, but it can’t be much clearer than this.”  
“If anything is clear, it’s that there is obvious biblical symbolism in those books. They’re Christian,” Aziraphale maintained. “You’re just defending them because you like them,” the demon muttered. “No, that’s not true,” the angel objected. “It’s the way you use them, Crowley, and they can be used for good. They’re not inherently bad. There’s room for improvement, certainly, but with some good influence, there’s a lot of potential.” Aziraphale’s tone was no more serious than it had already been, but Crowley suddenly questioned whether this conversation was still about Harry Potter.   
“Are you sure about that? Sometimes, there’s just… no hope,” Crowley said casually, pretending to be distracted by his job of not crashing into anything on the highway. “There’s always hope,” said the angel seriously.   
“You can’t turn everything and everyone good, angel.”  
“No, I can’t. But in some things, and some people, there already is good.”  
Crowley fell silent at that. He couldn’t imagine that Aziraphale would really think that he, a demon, could ever be as good as him. Which unfortunately reminded him of his worries. Look at the two of us, he thought. A pretty angel in a disgusting creme-coloured jumper, all innocent and soft, and a demon in black having a nervous breakdown.   
“Angel, I feel like maybe we should talk.”  
“Are we not talking?”  
“About… the Arrangement,” Crowley decided on. We should talk about us just sounded too dramatic, and too much like a teenager about to break up with a boyfriend. Which was not what was happening anyway, he reminded himself, because it’s not like Aziraphale would ever be interested in him.   
“What’s the matter with the Arrangement, dear boy?”   
Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who seemed genuinely clueless, all innocent blue eyes and messy blonde curls. He pushed up his glasses and looked at Crowley questioningly. Damn it. Crowley cleared his throat and nervously messed up his hair with one hand.  
“I mean, we’ve prevented the apocalypse. We somehow managed to avoid being murdered by heaven and/or hell, but I think we can both agree that we are no longer exactly their employees of the month. Things have changed.” From the corner of his eye, Crowley could see the angel nod, which encouraged him to continue. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that the Arrangement no longer really… makes sense, does it? I’m not working for hell anymore, you’re not working for heaven anymore, we no longer have to work together to pretend that we are, or...” A little lost for words, Crowley suddenly realized he didn’t even really remember what the Arrangement was originally about, or what it had turned into, or what it was supposed to be. He sighed, pretended to be occupied by the road for a second, and thought about what a mess this was. What did he even want to say?  
He wanted to say that he didn’t mean to trap Aziraphale in a friendship with a demon and that he understood that his pretty, his perfect, his good angel, didn’t want to be around him anymore, even if he thought there was some good in everyone. That it was best if they parted ways, with Aziraphale living his life surrounded by art and books and nice things- because Crowley wasn’t nice. Crowley was a demon, Aziraphale was an angel, and now that they had reached their goals, it was honestly not a good idea to spend time around each other.  
But before he said anything, he looked over at the angel in the passenger seat, and realized he’d gone very quiet. In fact, Aziraphale was fidgeting, plucking at the fluffy sleeves of his horrendous jumper. He seemed… upset. Crowley blinked stupidly in confusion, letting the uncomfortable silence last even longer because he simply had no idea what had just gone wrong.  
“I didn’t know that was all it was to you,” Aziraphale finally said quietly. Crowley was now completely and utterly lost. One thing he knew for sure: he had somehow managed to completely fuck this up. Aziraphale was obviously upset, and he didn’t know what to do, and all he said was, “What?”  
“I didn’t realize it was just a… a work thing for you. I mean, I know it was beneficial for the whole heaven/hell employer situation, but I suppose I thought it was also just... ” Aziraphale trailed off, biting his lip. “I thought we were spending time together, because we both enjoyed it.” His shoulders sagged at those last words, and he looked out of the window to avoid Crowley’s eyes before he continued. “Since you were the only one there throughout… well, the whole of history, the whole Noah thing, the wars, and all those horrible things. I suppose I suspected… but I just… nevermind.” The angel was trying to keep the emotion out of his voice, but Crowley knew better. He was suddenly, painfully reminded of the way the angel had looked when the flood had begun- wet curls clinging to his forehead, his wings drenched with rain and drooping down heavily around his small frame, eyes full of loss and pain and regret- and at the thought, something broke inside him. Aziraphale had had to see the most terrible things happen to the humanity he so dearly loved, and Crowley had been the only one there through all of it; no wonder that the angel had become attached to him. And now Crowley had assumed that Aziraphale never really wanted to be around him. He’d thought he was being selfless, for once, but he hadn’t been selfless, he’d been a blind moron and a lousy friend. He had never even realized how difficult things might have been for the angel, and had instead suggested to abandon him.   
Unbelievable. Somehow Crowley had conveyed the complete opposite of what he wanted to say. 

“Angel...” he started, and he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say, but he didn’t have to be- because right at that moment, a black BMW cut him off in the rudest manner. The driver was obviously on their phone and not paying attention in the slightest, prompting Crowley to brake abruptly in the middle of the highway. Needless to say, that didn’t go down too smoothly; the BMW still brushed against the Bentley, both Crowley and Aziraphale shot forward in their seats, and before he could relax, Crowley had to swerve to the left to avoid a collision with the car behind him. “Fucking asshole!” he spat, as the Bentley came to a halt at the side of the road. His heart was hammering inside his chest, he took a deep breath, and then looked to the left. “Are you okay?” Aziraphale was rubbing his chest where the seatbelt had painfully dug into his skin from the sudden halt. “Yeah,” he said, albeit a little shakily. “What a fucking idiot,” Crowley muttered under his breath, “what a lunatic. You didn’t happen to see the number plate, did you?” The angel shook his head. “Fuck!” He slammed his fists down on the steering steering wheel repeatedly, suddenly feeling anger and frustration at the whole situation flare up inside him. “It's okay, we're alright,” Aziraphale said in a rather small voice. “It's not okay,” Crowley growled, doing his very best to control himself. “I should have paid better attention. I should have set his whole bloody car on fire! Why do I fuck everything up?” With an angry wave of his hand, his seatbelt disappeared, and he kicked open the door to jump out. One glance at the car was enough to see that there were scratches that went far beyond the paint and would not be easy to repair, even mentally, especially when Crowley didn't have his emotions under control. “Shit!” he shouted at the sky, throwing up his arms in defeat.   
Behind him, Crowley heard the passenger door open and shut, but he didn't move until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, tears of frustration and confusion in his eyes that had been building up for weeks. “I didn’t mean to… shit, angel, of course it wasn’t just a work thing, and I’m sorry for being such a mess and I’m sorry for not murdering that idiot that scared you and scratched the paint on my Bentley.” “It’s alright,” Aziraphale said softly. “Let’s...” He looked the shaking, angry demon up and down, “let’s take a break for a second, before we crash into another car. Sit down and tell me what’s going on.”  
Taking a deep breath, Crowley nodded and let himself fall down on the grass, stretching out his long legs in front of him. The angel settled next to him, a hand on his shoulder, and though still a little shaken, looked at him encouragingly.   
Bloody… heaven, Crowley thought. Ah, fuck it, I don’t work there anymore. Bloody hell. What am I going to say?  
“I didn’t mean to say it was just a work thing. I just thought that… I just assumed that you were forced into this by circumstances,” he said a little helplessly. A quick glance to the side told him that Aziraphale had the most astonished look he’d ever seen. “Well, we both were, to an extent, dear boy- but, as I said, you were the only one there with me through all of it. That… that always meant a lot to me. And now...” The angel hesitated. “You’re my best friend,” he then said. And it sounded so obvious that Crowley wondered why he had ever even been confused at all. “I suppose I was afraid that you didn’t care as much,” he mutters. “You said that last night, too,” replied Aziraphale with a smile, and Crowley cringed inwardly. He really should mind his words more when he was drunk.  
“I didn’t want you to be stuck with me if that isn’t what you want,” Crowley defended himself. Aziraphale pulled up one eyebrow in slight disbelief. “Is that so, my dear?” Crowley once again raised his hands in defeat. “Fine. I was afraid that if I didn’t quote unquote dump you, that you’d do it to me first.”   
Aziraphale chuckled and shook his head. “You’re rather insecure for a demon, you know that? Crowley, I would never “quote unquote dump” you. Or just dump you, for that matter.” Crowley froze at the last words that were thrown in so casually. “Okay, alright, great,” he said in a slightly high-pitched voice. “It’s all sorted, then.”  
But to his surprise, he suddenly found Aziraphale's arms wrapped very tightly around him, the angel's head buried in his chest, his hand in the back of his neck. After a second’s hesitation, Crowley hugged him back. He was suddenly reminded of the way they’d been intertwined this morning, and smiled as he let his fingers slide through the angel’s soft curls. “Don’t think, don’t ever think, that I don’t want to be around you,” Aziraphale said, his words slightly muffled in Crowley’s coat. “I love you, Crowley.”   
Never again would Crowley question the angel’s feelings towards him. Never. He found himself utterly uncaring what the words even meant; if it was a romantic statement, or a best-friend statement, or a whole other thing- Aziraphale loved him, ineffably, and whoever gave a flying fuck what exactly this was? It was all he needed, that much he knew.  
“Love you too, angel.”  
Maybe this roadtrip wouldn’t be so bad after all.


End file.
